


Will Set You Free

by trascendenza



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s02e04 The Kindness of Strangers, F/F, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-17
Updated: 2007-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-05 13:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trascendenza/pseuds/trascendenza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honesty isn't a destination, it's a journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will Set You Free

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to summerkins and tinheart for the betas and cheerleading me. This is a West-doesn't-exist AU.

She jumps out the window before her dad can follow her upstairs and start lecturing her about how wrong she is. She's just _so_ not in the mood tonight.

Her left fibula breaks when she hits the ground, but knits itself back together by the time she's taken three steps from the house. She hardly notices, except to wonder if it was just a clean fracture instead of a full break; it repairs pretty fast, even by her standards.

Or maybe her—whatever—is getting stronger.

See, that's the thing. How she's supposed know? What's normal for someone like her? These are the kinds of thing she should be able to talk to her own _father_ about.

She wants to tell him how she's learned more of the names of her bones by abusing them than she ever did in bio class. About how much she much she would just love to be able to hear someone else say _yeah, isn't it scariest and coolest thing that ever happened to you?_

She'd even settle for just being able to talk about what it's like, all the things that have _happened_, how much has changed. She understands that they have to hide, okay, fine. But that doesn't mean she can pretend it's _not happening._ It's happening every single minute of every single day, and every time she even comes close to forgetting, well. Something—like the fact that she can't just call Zach up when she wants to talk to someone or how the dumbest little thing like getting a paper cut can make her nervous for the rest of the day—will remind her.

She learned the hard way that pretending it wasn't there meant that everyone around her got hurt.

So, yeah. At this point? She's feeling pretty ready to just own up to it. To look it all in the face and figure out what to do about it. Because this is _her._ This is what she is, and if she can't deal with that, she's not going to get very far.

But her dad's made it pretty obvious he's not the least bit interested in listening to anything she has to say.

*

She used to have people she could talk to.

Zach listened. Actually, Zach did more than listen; he gave her plenty of advice, too. Sometimes it was stupid, like telling her they should conduct experiments to see if they could give her claws like Wolverine, but that was just his dork nature talking. (She sort of started liking that about him, after awhile, but she'd eat nails before admitting it.) But he also thought of lots of practical stuff, like making sure she always kept a band-aid in her pocket so she could quickly cover up her cuts in public if she had to.

She remembers how they'd send each other coded text messages with inside jokes to disguise what they were saying, because after the tape disappeared, he insisted they start being careful. She thought he was being paranoid, but wrote out _maple syrup_ instead of _weird healing thing_, anyway, to humor him.

If he were here, now, she'd tell him now that he was being smart, that he was smarter than her all along.

And running away from this place that isn't really her home yet—God, it doesn't even smell like a real home, anti-septic and pine-scented like everything was just put in yesterday—she starts to wonder. What it would be like if she could still talk to him, what he'd tell her now, what kind of solution he'd have to living a lie, being about to explode because if she doesn't talk to _someone_—

_Find the Costa Verde version of me,_ a mental version of his voice like an echo from the past interrupts, de-railing her train of thought and screeching it to a full stop.

A Costa Verde version of Zach? She doesn't even _know_ anyone here. It isn't like she's been here long enough to meet anyone, and everyone has been pretty much ignoring her.

Except for…

She can picture him rolling his eyes and shaking his head at her like she's slow. _Duh, Claire._

She pauses at the corner of Amapola Blvd. and Plaza Linda, putting her hands on her hips, tilting her head to the side as she considers.

She makes the right turn onto Plaza Linda, a destination now firmly in mind.

*

"Claire?" May's face is shadowed from the light in her foyer, so Claire can't really make out her expression, which is bad, because she's starting to think this was a really stupid idea and that listening to voices in her head is not the way she should be making important life decisions. Thankfully May's voice sounds friendly.

It is a little hard to imagine May being unfriendly, come to think of it.

"Yeah, um. I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but I just was wondering if you had a minute to talk." Claire bites the inside of her left cheek, two bright spots burning on her cheeks. As dumb as she's feeling standing here, it would just be pathetic to chicken out, now.

May opens the door the rest of the way and warm yellow light spills out onto the porch at Claire's feet, gives definition to May's features. She doesn't seem the least bit put out; her whole face is lit up with a smile. She actually looks downright... happy.

"I'm so glad you came!" May exclaims, reinforcing Claire's surprised assessment as she steps back from the entrance, clearing the way for Claire to step in. Claire bites her lip, a last little sliver of hesitance holding her back. She thinks of what her dad told her about trusting people, about how if she's not careful with May, she could end up putting them both in danger. She isn't really safe to be around, knows that all too well, and yet here she is, just inviting herself into May's life without a second thought. (Well. Except for the one she's having now, that is.)

_But look how happy she is to see you,_ her conscience says in a voice that sounds suspiciously like Zach. _Some of us are weird enough to actually want to be your friend, Claire._

She almost scoffs, but she won't be able to explain to May what's so stupidly funny about all of this and May's looking at her expectantly, like she'll be disappointed if Claire _doesn't_ come in.

"Really? You don't mind?" She asks, giving May one last chance. She's tempted to say something along the lines of _my last best friend had two weeks of his memory wiped by a guy who works for my dad_ or _my bio-dad can fly_ or _my ankle should be fractured or broken or something right now, but it's not_. But she doesn't, and May is laughing a little, a tiny crease of amused confusion between her eyebrows like she can't believe Claire would have to ask.

"Come on," May says, nodding her head inside. "You take off your shoes and coat. I'll get the Rocky Road and some bowls."

So she comes in, because she can't think of any more reasons to stay outside.

*

"Make yourself at home."

May sets the ice cream and bowls on her nightstand, the spoons _clinking_ quietly as they knock against the ceramic. She begins scooping them out generous portions.

Claire sits on the bed, noticing how blue everything in May's room is—the bedsheets, the curtains, the loose long-sleeved shirt and capris that May has on. It's a little messy, books and clothes scattered everywhere, but nice, too, homey. There are posters of landscapes on three out of the four walls, expansive vistas and vivid colors from all over the world.

"Is that Hawaii?" Claire asks, pointing to the poster she means, a volcano erupting against a blue sky, with some words written along the bottom in a language she doesn't know.

"Yeah, my mom's side of the family is from that island. She says she'll take me there, one day." May hands Claire her bowl and gestures at the poster. "Well, the island, anyway, not to the volcano. It's dangerous to get too close. But they're really beautiful from far away."

"From far away," Claire repeats, reminded of a sky torn with an explosion. She looks down at her bowl, trying to push away impressions of a boom so loud it felt like it vibrated under her skin for days afterward. "This is really low fat?" She says, taking a bite of ice cream and talking over the memories. "The stuff my mom buys tastes so gross."

"I know, right? I love this stuff. I can go through a carton a week and not want to kill myself." May sits down on her bed, cross-legged, facing Claire. Taking one last bite before putting her bowl down, she picks up a pillow for her lap and focuses all her attention on Claire. "So… is everything okay?"

"Oh—yeah. Yeah, things are fine."

May watches her, gently curious, but not prying.

Which is probably what gives Claire the courage to speak; she's used to truth being dragged out of her, expected, taken as an assumed right. But sitting her with May, it's like she actually _has_ the option of not saying anything if she really doesn't want to.

And that kind of makes her want to.

She pokes her spoon into her melting Rocky Road, squishing a marshmallow, only able to look at May out of the corner of her eye.

"I am so _sick_ being treated like I'm a little kid. Where does he get off, anyway? Just because he's my dad he thinks he knows everything?" She scowls at her ice cream.

May's nodding. "Oh, God, _tell_ me about it. My dad is the exact same way. I hate how he acts like just because I'm a cheerleader I'm too dumb to make decisions for myself."

Claire's fingers clutch around the spoon handle. "Exactly! He says stuff like 'it's only fair, Claire-bear,' which, by the way, getting a little old for that nickname, thanks, and 'I'm looking out for your best interests,' but he never _listens_ to me, so how can he even _know_ what my best interests are?"

"God, that's the worst. When they listen, but they're not really listening, just waiting to, like, pat you on the head and give you a treat."

"Yeah. _Yeah._" Claire lets out a sigh, noticing how white her knuckles are and loosening her hand from the innocent silverware. She puts the bowl down, re-adjusting and pulling one of her legs up under her, facing May. She's amazed at how much better she feels just having said that. "Your dad's like that, too?" She asks, finally catching up to the fact that—hey, May _gets_ it.

"He's a pretty… traditional guy. He… he and I don't…" May looks like she's about to say something else, but then averts her glance, leaving the sentence hanging.

"He what?" Claire says, and for the first time in weeks, she's concentrating on something outside of her own head. It's weirdly refreshing.

"No, it's nothing, really. Forget I said anything."

"Hey, come on." Claire smiles, "This sharing thing isn't a one way street, you know."

"Oh, no—it's not you, Claire. It's just, I haven't… I haven't told anyone."

"No pressure or anything, but you can totally tell me." Although she's starting to think this might be a bit more serious than she initially assumed.

"Do you promise not to freak out?"

Claire laughs. "My life is a total freakshow." _Nothing you could say would freak me out at this point_, she thinks, unable to imagine anything higher on the freak-out scale than the entirety of the past few months. "I promise."

"And… you won't tell anyone else on the squad?"

"Yeah, of course. Of course. I know how to keep a secret, trust me." And that's all too true.

"Well, I." May exhales loudly, looks down in her lap, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. There's a long, drawn-out pause before she finishes her sentence. "Things haven't been the same with me and my dad since I… since I came out to him last year."

"Oh." _Oh._

Claire blinks, feeling a little—no, scratch that, _a lot_—stupid. It takes her more than her fair share of seconds to figure out what that even _means_, and once she does, well, God, she _just_ said she wouldn't freak out, except now she kind of is, because she was expecting a juicy rumor about one of their co-cheerleaders, or maybe some weird-but-not-scary family secret or something. Just… anything but this.

This, this revelation about May, it's is so far out of left-field, so out of the realm of Claire's experience—she isn't sure she's ever _met_ a lesbian before—that she just doesn't know what to think.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry. I don't know why I just told you that. And you came here because _you_ needed someone to talk to, and, God, I'm so stupid, I'm sorry." May's blushing beet-red and she starts to get up, clutching her pillow to her torso in a protective gesture.

Without any premeditation of what she's about to do, Claire reaches up and puts her hand over May's right wrist.

"No, no." Claire inhales, straightens up, and smiles. It's a little wobbly, but it's better than the frown she had on a second ago. "I was just a little… surprised, you know?"

May sits down again. She smiles back, but it's tinged sad. "It's better than my dad reacted. He said if I told anyone at school he wouldn't sign the release form for me to cheer."

"That's..." Claire's frowning again, but she can't help it. "That's awful."

May's skin feels warm in her hand, and realization dawns swift and clear. She recognizes the righteous indignation blooming in her chest on May's behalf, the impotent rage that May doesn't get control over her own life over something so _stupid_, like the way May was _born_.

Suddenly, it makes a lot of sense that May gets exactly how Claire was feeling when she came here. Secrets are secrets. And she also recognizes the worry that May's feeling, that gnawing feeling that's probably making her wish Claire would just leave. Just like when Lyle found the tape and threatened to expose her.

When he called her a freak.

"Don't worry," she says, patting May's arm in a way that she hopes is reassuring. (She's not usually on this side of heart-to-hearts.) "Your secret is safe with me. And I was surprised… but it doesn't change anything. You're still my friend."

"Really?" May's relief is almost painful to behold, it's so stark. The nervousness melts off her and she sits back bonelessly against the headboard.

Claire's smile isn't so wobbly this time. "Really. I'm glad you told me."

And May's smiling back at her, just like that day when she gave Claire the release form and told her she was a hero to the girls on the squad. Just like she smiles whenever they pass in the halls.

Her smile right now is warm, sweet, but not overly so, not heavy or artificial like candy—more like the red ripeness of a strawberry at the end of summer, sun-kissed. Life-affirming instead of a guilty pleasure, though Claire has no idea why _that_ pops into her head.

And she's so happy to see it that she doesn't notice her hand clasping more firmly around May's, or the way the base of her spine kind of tingles.

All she knows is that May looks happy again, and that makes _her_ happy, and God, it's just nice to have something this simple, for once.

*

It isn't long before she and May are nearly inseparable.

The weight of a secret shared, Claire finds out, is like being in a club. Overnight, all the people who _don't_ know aren't in the club, and she and May are, and there's something really cool about that, about how May always seems excited to talk to her and they can make jokes that no one else gets and, yeah, they don't point and laugh or anything, but it's tempting, sometimes.

Exclusive, that's the word, like they've put up a sign that says "no boys allowed" and get to snicker at everyone hanging out below the treehouse, wishing they were cool enough to get in.

*

After that first night, they mostly hang out at Claire's house when they're not at school or out and about the exciting night life of Costa Verde, because May's dad is creepy and insists on "checking in" on them every ten minutes. He hovers over Claire every second that she's in the house, terse and radiating disapproval with every sidelong and glance.

She digs her fingernails into her palms to the point of bleeding whenever he says something mean to May, whenever he acts like she's not good enough to be his daughter, which is the other reason they stop hanging out there, because Claire isn't lying when she tells May if she has to see him do that one more time she'll punch him in the jaw.

She starts to feel really lucky to have her family, and brings May over every chance she can, because they might not be perfect, but anything's better than _him_.

*

Cheerleading tryouts are upon them before they know it, and it's all May can talk about—how much fun she had last year, the new girls who are trying out this year, and ones she wishes wouldn't try out, and so on.

Claire hadn't been completely lying when she said she was over it. But if her best—and so far, only—friend at the school is going to do it, she's going to end up at all the practices and games, anyway, and it would be dumb not to sign up. And, okay, sometimes she misses wearing the uniform, the adrenaline of a really close game, the way that being part of a team just feels good, even if some of the members aren't the nicest people.

But she doesn't even tell May that, because if her dad won't sign the form, it won't be any use getting her hopes up.

She also balks at the idea of disappointing May. She gets a slight panicked tightness in her chest when she imagines letting May down. So she just smiles, nods, tries to sound excited when she says things like _I'm really excited for you_ and _I'm sure you'll make it this year_, all the while plotting the best way to talk her dad into it.

*

Her dad, of _course_, doesn't get why she insists on cheerleading. They spend a week straight arguing about it, shouting matches echoing through the halls of their showcase house and, according to her mom, "upsetting Mr. Muggles."

He finally starts to crumble after her mom makes him sleep on the couch; by the third night, he looks haggard and worked to his last nerve. She vindictively hopes that he is. If he draws this out any longer, she won't be on the team by virtue of not even being allowed to try out, which would be _so_ unfair.

"Just this one thing, dad." Claire pushes, unwilling to let it go for reasons she can't fully articulate, even in the privacy of her mind. "Just let me have this one thing."

"Claire…" He sighs, defeat written all over his face. "You have to promise me that you'll stay as far below the radar as you can."

She practically bounces out of her seat, grabbing him in a hug around the neck. "I promise. You won't regret this."

"Don't give me a reason to," he says dryly, penning his signature at the bottom of the paper.

Giving him a kiss on the forehead, she takes the form before he can change his mind, and runs upstairs to call May and tell her.

*

Claire comes so close to telling May over and over and over again. The guilt snowballs as they fall into a friendship where they spend so much time together that she has to actively lie to May about certain things.

May, without even knowing anything about Claire, really, trusted Claire enough to share her secret.

But even though Claire knows, she _knows_ May won't tell anyone her secret, she's afraid of pushing it. Afraid that if her dad found out, he would try to take away the one good thing in this godforsaken town that she can call her own.

*

She starts having nightmares.

She's in the middle of an extension, and it's so cliché, but she totally feels on top of the world, with the lights flashing all around the stadium, the players butting their head and throwing Gatorade on the benches, the crowd roaring and cheering.

She's not even worried about falling because May's her backspot and won't let anything bad happen.

But then the lights dim, all at once, and people start screaming, just like Homecoming. A guy—she can't see his face or his clothes, he's a dark blur, horrifically frightening precisely for that reason—runs out of the stands with a gun aimed at her, and she isn't even really scared of the gun, because she's had worse happen, but before she can jump down, before she can dodge out of the way, he shoots her straight in the chest. She falls back into May's arms.

And she watches May watch the bullet pop out of her chest, her face going from concerned to shocked to—

And that's when she wakes up in a cold sweat, her hand reaching out like she can stop whatever disaster's about to happen, like she can go back in time and undo all the lies she's already spun.

*

There are upsides to getting closer, though. Like getting past the initial "if I say will she think I'm a total weirdo?" phase and into the "speak every thought that passes through my mind knowing you won't judge me" one. A lot of useful information can be shared and gathered that way, she discovers.

For instance, she notices how hard a time May has making eye contact with Debbie, and finds out that it's because May's a sucker for a good pair of blue eyes. They're comfortable enough that they can joke about how it's her, like, lesbian Kryptonite.

It's enough to make Claire wonder why she wasted any time freaking out over the whole thing.

"You know," May says one day as they're crowd-watching, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Just because I don't like guys doesn't mean you can't talk about them."

"What?" Claire looks away from the fast flow of students in the hallway, redirecting her attention to May.

"We're always talking about the girls I like and who _I_ think is cute. What about you?"

Claire opens her mouth, but quickly shuts it, because she has no idea what to say.

She isn't sure what's so strange about the idea. Didn't she have crushes on boys back in Odessa? She thought she'd liked Brody, but time and distance revealed that she'd liked the idea of him much more than the actuality. Seriously, cheerleader and quarterback? She gets embarrassed thinking about it, now, how childish she was, how _unreal_ everything about her life was back then. It's the one great thing her powers have done for her: woken her up to the fact that she never, ever wants to live like that again.

"I can't remember the last time I cared enough to look," she finally replies, honestly, forehead furrowing.

"Oh."

The way May says it reminds Claire of exactly the tone she used when May came out to her.

Claire looks back at the stampede to the cafeteria before she can figure out what that means.

*

As soon as her mom gets home, she rushes down the stairs; she hasn't been able to concentrate on her homework all afternoon and she knows if she doesn't catch her mom fast, she'll get started combing Mr. Muggles, and that's an hours-long project most days.

"Mom!"

Her mom blinks up at her, startled. "No need to yell, Claire."

"Sorry. I was wondering. Can we go, um…" Claire pulls a worn sports bra out from behind her back and waves it around as evidence. "I need some new ones."

"Why didn't you just say so? I was at the mall Monday with Lyle getting your dad some new work shirts."

Claire makes a face. "I was hoping _I_ could pick some of them out."

"Well." Her mom smiles like she's sharing some sort of inside joke with herself. "We better get going, then. Let me just call the dog-sitter and get my coat."

Thirty minutes later, they're cruising the Costa Verde mall which is packed to the brim, even on a Wednesday afternoon. Claire prowls through the racks with a restless energy, rejecting possibility after possibility. None of them are quite _right_. She doesn't have a clear picture in her mind of what she wants, but she knows what she doesn't want, and Macy's and Sears are full of the discards. She does find a few cute shirts and jeans, though, thankfully, so they aren't a complete bust.

"We could try some catalogues," her mom suggests a bit breathlessly as they make their way to the third department store. "I have some real nice ones that came in the mail yesterday. Save ourselves all this runnin' around."

Claire purses her lips, looking down at the two bags she has in hang, completely empty of any undergarments. Maybe it is a lost cause.

"Or we could try Victoria's Secret."

Claire spins around, nearly whacking her mom with the bags she's now clutching in extreme mortification. "What?" She hisses under her breath, suddenly wishing she'd asked someone, _anyone_ else to come. At least Lyle would just laugh at her instead of suggesting they go into _Victoria's Secret_.

She tilts her head to the side, and sure enough, there it is just across the way, frighteningly pink interior beckoning.

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun!" And the way her mom smiles is frighteningly determined.

*

Ten minutes later, Claire finds herself in the dressing room with twelve different choices, all of them equally strange, frilly, and colorful. She's never worn something with underwire in her _life_, and now she's being bombarded with all these new fabrics and textures and patterns, and it's just too much.

Swallowing, she picks one at random from the melee, holding it up to the light.

It's blue, a deep color that reminds her of the ocean, makes her think of faraway beaches. There aren't too many frills or complicated clasps: simple and elegant. Best of all, when she tries it on, it fits.

"I'll take three of these," she tells the saleswoman at the front of the dressing room, handing in the other eleven as discards; she didn't have to try any of them on to know they weren't right.

"There, now," her mom says, folding up her paperback and getting out of the waiting area seat. "Was that so hard?"

Claire takes her three pretty new bras in hand, holding them up with a smile. "I guess not."

*

"Wow, Claire," May says the next day when they're getting ready for gym. "That is a _cute_ bra."

"Totally," agrees Denise, looking over her shoulder.

And there's this thought that's processing in Claire's brain, slowly, like it's a foreign language and she doesn't have a dictionary or even know where to _find_ a dictionary.

May is…

May is looking at her chest.

And it doesn't freak her out. In fact, it does something else entirely.

"I—um. Thanks. I guess."

Claire feels a blush—no, blush isn't right, because she actually feels like her skin is on _fire_, there are emergency levels of blushing going on here—spreading all across her neck and cheeks.

"My mom bought it for me," she blurts out, slamming her locker door shut harder than she needs to and sitting on the bench, _hard_.

"That's _so_ cool." May slides into her black shorts, and Claire has to avert her eyes because she was totally _looking at May's underwear_ and what the _hell_ is going on here?

"I wish my mom had such good taste." May says, holding up the strap of her plain white bra and sticking her tongue out. "You're lucky."

Claire barks out a sound that could, if stretched to the limits of the definition, be considered a laugh. (More like a drowning gasp.) "Yeah, lucky. That's me. Lucky Claire. Did you know, once, in the third grade, I won three cakewalks in a row? Because I was really lucky, not because I, like, cheated or anything. I don't know why anyone would cheat a cakewalk, because, _duh_, it's a cakewalk. Um. Yeah." She nods furiously, and steadily bores her eyes into the center of May's forehead, which would be a lot less challenging if May would stay still and stop, like, fondling her bra in that really distracting way.

"Oh, yeah—your dad told me that story. He said you guys were eating cake for breakfast for like two weeks. I bet your were pretty sick of it by the end, huh?"

Claire swallows audibly. "Uh huh. Sick of it. Yes." Repetition seems like a smarter idea than talking, right now, because she was just talking about _cake walks._

And then May's shirt—thank God—slides into place. And breathing, while still not the easiest task, becomes eminently more manageable.

"Are you all right?" Denise asks, closing her locker and putting a hand on Claire's shoulder. "You look kinda… splotchy."

"I'll be fine." Claire waves a reassuring hand. "You guys go ahead, I'll catch up."

"See you out there," May says, and they jog off, probably unwilling to risk the wrath of Mrs. Bowman to wait for her.

Which is good, Claire decides as she lets the back of her head bang against her locker door, closing her eyes. Because she isn't sure _what_ she would have said if May had asked her whether something was wrong.

_I think the little blue flowers on your underwear are really hot._

…Yeah. _That_ would have gone really well.

*

Claire looks over her shoulder, examining every inch of the living room to make sure that no one is in it. She knows Lyle's at his friend Chris's house, and her mom has a salon appointment, and dad never gets home this early, but her hands are clammy and shaking a little and if any of them were home she wouldn't be able to do this.

Not that she's doing something wrong, it's just—it's private. That's all.

Or so she tells herself, dropping her fingers down to the keyboard. A tingling hesitance cramps her knuckles.

She has to look over her shoulder one last time before she can type "how do I know if I'm a lesbian?" into Google.

When the search results pop up she's immediately lightheaded. The names of the websites—lesbianlife.com, outproud.com, lesbianworlds.com—swirl around in her head, and her heart beats too loudly, blood rushing to her head.

She turns the monitor off, blinking rapidly.

It's a little… much. All at once. And those words are… things that she's used to applying to _other_ people. Not herself. It's really hard to imagine fitting herself into those concepts. She has this inexplicable urge to back away from the computer, to distance herself from that, her hands clenching in her lap and muscles tensed and her whole body saying _no_.

Which is really, really dumb, and she knows it.

More than that, Claire has always thought of herself as well-educated. She wasn't like some of her classmates in Texas, the ones who acted like the twenty-first century was just a persistent myth that everyone else bought in to. She kept up with current events, she knew that there was a whole world outside of little Odessa. She did. She knew there were people who weren't like her _everywhere_.

But until her skin tissue starting knitting together and her blood would _suck_ back into her body if it didn't drip down fast enough, she hadn't considered she might _be_ one of those people.

And, technically speaking, so is May.

She's not used to thinking of it in those terms, is all. To her, May is just… May.

She's the one who hogs all the popcorn during movies, who always forgets the punchline to a joke and calls Claire two hours later when she finally remembers it. (God, Claire has never laughed so hard in her life as the time that May actually _drove over_ to tell her the one she'd remembered about the three donkeys walking into a bar, because even if the joke was stupid, May thought it was hilarious, and when May laughs, she can't help but join in, and May thought that joke was _really_ funny.)

May's the one that helps Claire figure out the difference between a gerund and a participle, the one that makes practicing her scales for chorus sound like an operatic event. She's the one who teaches Claire how to say "please" and "thank you" in Cantonese and likes to wear her socks up to her knees with shorts on rainy days because it gives her an excuse to turn the heater in her room up.

And, yeah. She happens to like girls.

But it's really not a big deal.

"So what if I do, too?" Claire says out loud. "Would that be so bad?"

Shaking her head, she leans forward and turns the monitor back on, really glad that she didn't try to talk to someone about this first, because, God, she can be so monumentally slow sometimes.

She clicks through the first site and reads, her heart rate still going a little faster than normal but not in full freak-out mode. She's doing pretty well, considering. The "Frequently Asked Questions" section tells her pretty much the same stuff she just figured out on her own—if she is, it's nothing to be worried about.

It's perfectly normal, it says, and only _she_ can know what the right answers are for herself. She likes that.

When she gets to the second link, she's pretty calm and collected. She can do this. She's cool. She can _totally_ do this. She's rolled with life-altering punches before; she's practically a pro at this stuff by now. The shock is already starting to wear off, in fact.

Until she reads the second paragraph down, that is:

_Many young women feel physically attracted to men. But other young women feel physically attracted to women. You may notice that you feel "turned on" by other women._

May takes up the full scope of her mind's eye, half-clothed and smiling, and Claire's stomach is full of flutters—like, of the metaphorical insect variety, not innocent "oh, yeah, I could eat some lunch" flutters—and her cheeks are flushing and she bites her bottom lip really hard and it's the locker room _all over again._

And then it hits her like a ton of very unforgiving bricks.

She has a crush on her _best friend_.

She groans, banging her forehead against the surface of the desk. "I hate my life," she cries, and _God_, does she mean it.

*

Right away, awkwardness springs up between her and May, the proverbial (big gay) elephant in the room.

Claire thought she was out of her depth questioning her sexuality, but trying to cope with a crush on her best friend in the whole school who she spends almost every free minute with _and_ who she knows for a fact has a crush on her biggest enemy Debbie? So beyond unfair. This isn't even in the same league as unfair; it's like the evil grandfather of unfair.

Now, even the simplest things like May admiring the cut of another girl's skirt will be enough to send her into a whole deranged mental spiral: _I am not jealous. I am not jealous. But what does that girl have that I don't? I know for a fact that she cheated on that calculus test and if it weren't for the fact that she's a teacher's pet she wouldn't even be passing. And her shoes are ugly. Not that I'm jealous, because I'm _not_. And if I were, I wouldn't be jealous of _her_ and her stupid, ugly shoes._

Usually by the time she's talked herself back from the not-jealousy precipice, May is looking at her worriedly and asking her if anything's wrong.

Claire gets really good at making non-committal noises and changing the topic to one of the three neutral things they have left: parental lameness, the never-ending homework battle, and the moves of their cheer routines. They're safe, universally applicable, and don't involve mention of other girls.

Because she isn't—really, she _isn't_ jealous—but there's no need to rub it in.

*

Randomly enough, it's Lyle that notices first.

The family unit is sitting down to yet another dinner where the silences loom larger than the words. Her mom is trying to make small talk, her dad is recounting his fascinating adventures with toner, and Claire's playing with her peas, chasing them in circles around the mashed potatoes.

She's thinking about how Debbie put her arm around May's waist today. Her fork squeaks against the ceramic of her plate.

"Hey, pass me the rolls," Lyle says, reaching out his hand.

"Get them yourself, creep," Claire snaps before she can stop herself.

"Claire!" Her mom looks shocked. "That is no way to speak to your brother. You apologize right this instant."

Her dad has one eyebrow raised, his fork paused halfway up to his mouth, which is now closed into a considering line.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" Claire sighs. "I just had a bad day at school." She picks up the basket and holds it out for him.

"More like a bad month," Lyle says. "I mean, you're always _weird_, but you've been acting like a total alien lately. Just get over it."

Her mom turns her attention to Lyle and tells him firmly that two wrongs don't make a right; the conversation shifts away from Claire.

But the bite of roast beef never makes it to her dad's mouth, because he sets his fork down, expression thoughtful.

She shoots him her best _I'm just an innocent little cheerleader, I swear_ smile, knowing that can't bode well.

*

"I can't wait until college."

Claire turns her head; she can see the top half of May's profile, the bottom half obscured by the grass they're lying in.

"Totally. High school is so…" Claire sighs, blades of grass flattening and making a muted whining noise from her breath. "Not where I want to be." She likes to think that by the time she's in college, she'll be able to use her powers for something more than endangering her family.

It's a nice dream, at least.

"It'll be nice to be somewhere I can… well, you know. I mean, watching _The L Word_ at three in the morning so my dad won't catch me is, like, so ridiculous."

"Why didn't you bring it over last night? We could have watched it after my parents went to bed; they wouldn't have minded." She feels a little hurt that May started watching the rest of the season without her.

"Oh, um…" May turns her head, glancing askance at Claire, "I didn't want to bother you, you know? You've already been so cool about everything, but I don't want to try and, like, indoctrinate you or anything." She laughs a little breathlessly. "And some of those scenes with Shane are, _ohmygod._ I could just die."

"Yeah." She looks at May biting her lip and sighs inwardly, a habit she's developed recently. "I know how you feel."

*

When she gets home and opens the door to her bedroom, her dad is sitting on her bed, holding one of her bears.

"Dad," she says, putting down her backpack and sitting down next to him, "that's kinda creepy."

"Sorry." He gives the bear a light squeeze and then sets it down, turning to her. "But I wanted to make sure I caught you before you went the game."

"Did I do something wrong?" She crosses her arms, prepared to defend herself against whatever unjust accusation it is this time.

He shakes his head. "You mother and I have been talking, and we think we're the ones who've done something wrong."

She unfolds her arms, letting them drop into her lap. "Oh." She's tempted to ask _what now?,_ because he's gotten them into so many kinds of trouble, but his genuine-seeming earnestness stops her. "What happened?" She says, instead, tempering her tone.

He puts a hand on her shoulder. "We've noticed that something's been bothering you. And that you haven't trusted us enough to tell us what it is."

"Bothering me?" She tries to scoff, but it comes out more like an awkward laugh as her eyes slide away from his. "Nothing's bothering me. Everything's fine."

"You haven't been yourself, Claire." He raises an eyebrow. "If Lyle is noticing, it's pretty bad."

"Yeah, well, what do you expect?" She glares at her pillow, one fist bunching on her covers. "Making someone _lie_ about who they are is _wrong_, dad. It just ruins everything."

His hand on her shoulder grips a little tighter. "You know that's for your own good—"

"I'm so sick of hearing that!" She punches her fist into her mattress. "And what did she ever do to him, anyway? Can't he be happy with her the way she is? He has no idea how _amazing_ she is, and it's just so _stupid_, and if I have to hear one more story about him and his—his stupid narrow-minded opinions, I'll just, I'll—"

She runs out of steam when she can't think of a suitably horrible thing to do to May's dad, and blinks at her own.

"This isn't about you, is it, Claire-bear?"

Her mouth scrunches into a sheepish line and she shakes her head.

"So." He smiles, eyes crinkling at their edges. "When were you going to tell me about her?"

*

Claire expected that her family knowing would make this all even worse, but it goes way better than she ever would have imagined.

Like the healing stuff—even though she has to lie about it every other place, at least she can act like it's normal here at home.

Her mom, for instance, is so level-headed about the whole thing that it sort of… rubs off. She just smiles tranquilly when Claire tells her, gives her a hug and says however God made her, Claire's still her daughter and nothing is going to change that. And the way her mom talks about it, like it's just another fact of life in the Bennet household and that's that—it makes Claire feel like laughing with how easy it can be.

Even Lyle, who could easily use either new revelation about her as an excuse to be a general asshole, doesn't. He's bizarrely cool about the whole thing. With the healing thing, after the initial blow-up, he just took a very shrug-and-roll-his-eyes approach.

But, now, in small ways, he shows Claire he's okay with this. Like making an off-hand comment about how the girl in the Clearasil commercial is cute with just enough wiggle room for Claire to chime in with her opinion, or being kind of friendly with May when she comes over, like… like May is someone important.

It's unnerving. Maybe it's just because May's dad is so psycho about the whole thing, but she envisioned lasting repercussions, another family crisis laid at her feet.

Her dad surprised her the most of all.

"If you want to know the truth?" He said, looking almost relieved, "I'm just glad this isn't over some boy." And then he hugged her and told her that he loved her no matter what.

She does wish they'd stop "accidentally" inviting May over to dinner all the time and then _staring_ at the two of them like they're watching some kind of teen soap opera. And that they'd all stop asking her when she's going to tell May. Because, oh, God, telling them? Was hard enough. Telling May?

She's not even ready to _think_ about that, yet, much less do it.

*

Except May doesn't seem to be on-board with this plan.

"You know whatever's going on you can tell me, don't you, Claire?" May shuts her locker and leans against it, books against her chest.

"Wrong?" Claire forces out a laugh. "Nothing's wrong. I don't know why everyone thinks something's wrong." As they walk to class, she launches into a long drawn-out and exaggerated recounting of the latest odd adventures of Lyle and what she likes to call his Costa Verde Rat Pack.

May laughs at all the appropriate parts, but her stare is still too focused, too intent.

Claire tries to hurry into English, hoping that forty-five minutes of Mrs. Kemp droning on about semi-colons and their five thousand imperative uses will be enough to distract her from pursuing the matter. But May puts her hand on Claire's shoulder, stopping her in the hallway.

"Wait."

Claire swallows, turning around, praying that she won't say anything stupid.

"Yeah?" She chirps, a little too merrily.

"Look, Claire, I just—" May bites her lip, looking extremely uncomfortable. "I wanted to tell you. If, if I did anything. If I did anything to make you mad at me I'm really really sorry and I hope you'll tell me so I can make it better okay?" She says it quickly, all in one breath, no pauses. Like she's been rehearsing it.

Claire just looks at her, stunned; she's still at a loss for words when the bell rings and May ducks away, mumbling how they should get into class.

She closes her eyes, shaking her head, wishing she had a nice hard brick wall she could slam it repeatedly into right about now.

Because of all the things she anticipated when she decided it was best not to tell May about all the confusing stuff going on inside her head? This wasn't one of them.

And if there's one thing she can't do, it's let May think that _she's_ the one who did something wrong.

*

It's like that first night she came here.

She arrived at May's doorstep angry, confused, lost in a world that didn't make sense. When she didn't know where to turn, this was the place that she thought of as safe, as somewhere she could just be herself.

May has taught her a lot of valuable lessons since then. Like how differences don't divide people unless people _want_ them to, and how honesty might hurt sometimes, but it's worth it, in the end, and certain really special times? It can lead to things like a friendship that wouldn't have been possible without it.

And now it's time for her to return the favor. To show May that she _can_ trust Claire. That, no matter what happens from here on out, Claire won't lie to her anymore. That even if she feels dumb and awkward and stupid, she'll be honest with May, because that's what friends _do_.

It isn't her dad's choice, it isn't the Company's choice, it isn't _anyone's_ choice but her own. It's her body, and her life, and she's done hiding. Done hiding everything.

Back in Odessa, Zach showed her what a real friendship was. And every day, May believes in her, shows her the person she wants to be.

It's time she started being that person.

*

"I'm… I'm really glad you came." May says, smiling a little shyly, like they're back to square one. Maybe they are.

But she looks so good that it's a little hard for Claire to breathe. She's clutching her favorite pillow to her chest as she sits on her bed, her hair falling in two neat lines down her front, and her pajamas (her favorite ones—blue, of course) don't do much to hide the form and tone that cheerleading have only been improving over the past few months.

"What you said earlier today," Claire says, in part to stop herself from turning around and walking out the door and in part to acknowledge the tension in the way May's twirling—nearly pulling—at the ends of her hair.

"Oh, you. Uh. You want to sit down?" May drops her hair and gestures at the end of the bed, the same side that Claire takes on her own bed when they're holed up in her room watching a movie and tuning out her family. She takes it.

"So. I wanted to… tell you some stuff, but I have something else I want to show you, first."

She pulls out the towel she stuffed into her sweatshirt middle pocket earlier and lays it out in her lap.

"I'll be okay, don't worry," she says, quickly pulling the knife out and slicing it diagonally across her forearm, making sure to angle it so May can see the severity of the cut and the result as it instantaneously knits up, not even a drop of blood marring the precautionary towel.

She does it all with such speed that May's sharp gasp and half-started questions of concern come after the cut has disappeared, and Claire looks at her, ready for anything.

May's hand hovers just above Claire's immaculately healed skin, her eyes riveted. "You're really okay? You're not hurt?"

Claire shakes her head. "It's… this ability I have. In my genes, or something."

"Wow. That's amazing. Can I…?"

"Yeah, sure." Claire smiles, because now that she knows why she's here it isn't so bad having May touch her, running three warm fingertips up the length of the mended wound.

"Do you mind if I ask how you…" May draws her hand back, looking up, her face full of surprise and curiosity. "I just don't even know where to start."

"You got a little while?"

"Yeah, I finished everything in study hall, and my dad's gone for the four day weekend on a business trip, so we won't get interrupted or anything."

Claire remembers—it's why she came over. She scoots back on the bed, crossing her legs, and getting comfortable. "Then I'll start from the beginning."

And she does. She starts with the first time she noticed it, and how she just thought she was going crazy for a few weeks, and her eventual decision to get Zach to give her hard evidence, thinking that maybe her birth parents would be able to help her figure out what was going on with her. She talks about how she was so sure it was a curse, and quietly recounts what happened with Brody in a detached, clinical voice because it's the only way she can get through it, and she _needs_ to, she needs to.

She tells May all about her bio-family and how weird they are, how much she misses Peter and being around people who were like her, how they'd done something _good_ and she's felt basically lost about what to do with herself ever since then. She talks about things she didn't even know she _wanted_ to talk about, and May listens, says words when it's appropriate but mostly just listens, and gravitates closer and closer the longer Claire talks, eventually putting her arm around Claire's shoulder.

And when she cries, because sometimes it's just more than she knows how to deal with all on her own, May tucks her into a hug that has space for it all.

Before she knows what's happened, she's fallen asleep like that, head buried in the crook of May's neck, held tightly.

*

She wakes up to sunlight and the smell of waffles and May folding clothes and stacking them neatly on top of her dressing, dancing to some song playing on her iPod, rocking out in flannel.

Claire rubs her fists into her eyes, because—this is too good to be true? She must be dreaming.

"May?" She croaks in her sleep-clogged voice, pushing the blankets off and sitting up. And then she notices that she's still wearing the clothes she came over in last night, and, wow. Probably not a dream.

May swivels around, the pile of white shirts in her hand extended like an offering. She looks at them, sets them down, and takes the earbuds out. "Hey, sleepyhead! You looked so tired I told my mom not to wake you up. She made waffles if you want some. But, first…" She walks over to the nightstand and picks up a toothbrush package and a stack of clean-smelling clothes. "This is an extra toothbrush and some clothes I think should fit you."

"I, oh. Wow." Claire takes the care package with a smile. "You weren't joking about that girl scout thing, were you?"

"Five years!" May chirps, and Claire can hear "Nine in the Afternoon" coming out of her earbuds before she puts them back in. Her steps to the dresser bounce in time to the beat. Claire watches, her amused smile growing.

She heads into the shower with a bemused shake of her head.

*

Unfortunately, the time in the shower provides her with ample opportunity to remind of her why she came over here last night, and she gets nervous all over again and has to try to put the pants on three times before she gets them the right way. May is the only person who's ever made her feel like a dumb little _zipper_ is more complicated than a quadratic equation.

It takes her a little while to gather up her courage again—she feels a bit cheated, because she went through the same routine last night, standing in front of the mirror and telling herself she could do it—but a few deep breaths and a pointed glare at her reflection and she's ready to go back out.

She opens the door and sees May putting away the clothes she just folded. She goes and sits on the bed, waiting, not very patiently but not quite prepared to interrupt May, either.

"Feel better?" May asks, popping out an earbud.

"Yeah, thanks for the clothes. They look great."

May closes the top drawer and steps back, brushing her hands off, nodding with an accomplished air. Then she turns around and looks at Claire.

Claire tries to smile instead of running away.

"They do look great on you! You should keep them." May sits beside her, admiring the fit. "Those pants are all the wrong cut for me, anyway."

"Yeah, about that… there's something I need to… tell you. That…" Claire lets out a breath. "Might change things. You might end up wanting to keep these clothes."

"What?"

"I… well, remember how last night I said I wanted to tell you something?"

May nods.

"What I showed you… that was just supposed to be the first half. Like, if you hated me for lying to you all this time about that, I would have left, but since you let me stay, I…" Claire looks away. This _still_ isn't easy. The healing stuff was about a million times easier.

"Claire, what is it? I meant it. You can tell me anything, anything at all. That's what friends are for, right?"

"This is kinda hard for me to say. And, um, if you could just let me get it all out? It's nothing bad," Claire amends quickly, twisting her thumb farther than it should probably be able to go. "It's just—if I don't get it all out, I might not be able to, you know?"

"Yeah, of course. Of course. Whatever you need."

Claire laughs a little, because laughing is the only thing she _can_ do right now, unless she wants to die of her own ineptitude. Looking down at her hands, she lets out another long and slow breath.

And all of a sudden, the strangest sensation overtakes her.

The fear that's been paralyzing her, that's made her so certain she could never do this… it isn't there. Now that she's here, and that May is here, and she's actually doing this, all the worst case scenarios have fled her mind. She's just, like, breathing. And as long as she keeps doing that, she'll be okay. It's weird how simple it is.

She takes a deep breath in and raises her head, not quite able to meet May's eyes.

"I'm not like you. I didn't always… know, the way you did. Boys just made sense to me, you know? They were there, and I was supposed to like them, and I never, like, thought about it or anything. I didn't have to. Cheerleader and the quarterback, right? That's the way things go in Texas." She rolls her eyes. "And I had this friend, Zach. He was always telling me to embrace my inner freak. Which I didn't get at _all_. But I think I do now."

She lets out another breath, and this one is steadier, draws another in.

"Meeting you, May, it's been like this whole other world opening up to me. It's… made me realize some stuff. About me."

One more out, one more in.

"I'm pretty that… I'm pretty sure I'm a lesbian."

She hardly notices this breath, finally looking May in the eyes. She sees nothing but welcome there.

"And I'm pretty sure I like you. In… that way."

And then it all comes tumbling out, artless and choppy, like waters loosed from a dam that was on the verge of breaking all along. "And it's not like—it's not like I expect you to like me, or anything, or that I want this to ruin out friendship, because you're one of the best friends I've ever had, and I don't know what I'd do if I messed that up. You didn't do _anything_ wrong and I feel so stupid that you'd ever think that. It was _me_. I just didn't know how to tell you, and I was all afraid you'd hate me, and, just, yeah. I was kinda stupid. And I'm really sorry about lying to you, and, just. I really, really hope I didn't mess this up."

She lets out a final crowning breath, feeling like her spine has melted into a trembling, useless noodle and her skin is tingling with the rush of all the emotional weight lifted off.

And now that she's not so focused on making sure that her oxygen flow continues uninterrupted, she sees that May…

May looks sort of the opposite of freaked out. Or mad. Or any of the things Claire was steeling herself to see.

"God… Claire, I." May's caught somewhere between a smile and a jaw drop. "I can't believe you thought I'd hate you. I—I could _never_ hate you."

And then it's May who's ducked her head and staring a hole through a non-descript spot in space. "I was so glad you were cool with the lesbian thing, I. I didn't want to scare you. Because it's one thing to know about it, and another to know that your lesbian friend, like, wants your body, you know?"

Claire swallows, nearly choking on the sentence May just said. _My body. I think she just said something about my body. Ohmygodmybody._

"And—God, that's why I was pretending to like Debbie. I mean, _Debbie._ I lied to you, too. I was so sure there was no way—no way you could—"

"Totally want your body back?" Claire says, laughing, wild and reckless, because she can hardly think anymore with how loud her heart is beating in her ears and pulsing under her wrists, with how amazingly _free_ and alive she feels right now.

"Yeah," May breathes, blinking at Claire owlishly, biting her bottom lip again, but this time she doesn't look self-conscious. She looks… distracted.

It must be the euphoria, the small part of Claire's mind that's still functioning thinks as she reaches forward, because the distraction is mutual and has rendered her fully incoherent.

May's bottom lip is a little red from how hard she worried at it, and Claire whispers some kind of nonsense, _here, let me,_ because she doesn't want May to hurt herself, she can't heal like Claire does, of course Claire has to help, to soothe away the lingering teeth marks. It's only natural to touch her other four fingers to May's heated cheek, to look into the warm brown of her eyes when May leans forward into her hand.

Her breath hitches when their noses brush, and she closes her eyes, because she can smell May, that spring-scented laundry detergent, her peach shampoo, her French vanilla lip gloss. It's overwhelming and compelling and draws her in so that she finds her way to May's lips through soft touches in the soft dark, her fingertips sparking with electricity as they thread through May's hair.

She tastes just as life-affirming as Claire thought she would, piquant sweet like a strawberry, with some hints of maple syrup underneath. The darting slide of her tongue against Claire's tongue is enough to flare the twisting heat at the pit of her stomach into blazing life.

Claire isn't sure which of them falls first, or if they go down together, the pillow May always holds now cushioning their heads. They way they fit isn't completely smooth, new around the edges, her teeth clicking against May's, their knees knocking. They both fumble, and laugh breathlessly in the scant air between them. But it's not long before May figures out how to angle her head and then they _do_ click in to place, and their knees and legs slide together instead of competing for space.

As they entangle, Claire feels like a kid, unsure what to do or say or what May wants, not even sure she knows what she wants other than an inarticulate burning beneath her skin.

It's not scary or weird or any of the stuff she was scared of the few times she was brave enough to imagine this, though. It's _honest_, no pretenses or games or holding back or being something they're not. Kind of perfect, really, even if it is a mistake or rushing or jumping headfirst into things they don't know or understand.

Because she knows whatever mistakes she's going to make from now on, she wants to make them with May.


End file.
